The Dark Renaissance
by Counterfeit God
Summary: Sephiroth takes the Planet for himself, lost in his fantasy of becoming a true god. But what happens once the battle is won and the human race is dead? What is there left now that those he once cared for are gone?


AN: The last line is my own personal twist on a bible quote. I believe it's Peter 5:8, but don't quote me. This was vaguely influenced by parts of "Might is Right" by Ragnar Redbeard, controversial as it is. Feedback would be greatly appreciated. This was somewhat of an experiment and I'd like to get an opinion on it, good or bad.

After Meteor made impact, everything was different. The Planet was altered so drastically, that its very nature had been warped beyond repair. The healing properties of the Lifestream were no more; what once had protected a lush, growing planet had become nothing more than a vile worm, rotting from the very core the one thing it had been designed to protect. There was to be no salvation. Darkness had fallen, becoming a creeping shadow over what had once been a promising, bright landscape.

Sephiroth stepped easily over the dead, the harsh sandstorm tearing at the fragments of humanity that lay decomposing and forgotten on the blackened ground. He had been wandering the impact zone for what could have been days or hours, he really wasn't sure. His intelligent, cold eyes wandered over the desolation with a twisted sense of satisfaction. For every body he saw, his pulse quickened. He could feel their very souls coursing through the earth beneath his feet, all confusion and maliciousness, ripping away at a damaged, dying Planet, the very thing they had fought so bravely for, and yet in death, were mindlessly shredding apart. There was no 'humanity' left to tell them otherwise. He smiled darkly at the thought, his eyes closing in complete abandon. Their screams were deafening, like pounding drums to his sensitive ears. Even with their massive numbers, he was not afraid. A god had nothing to fear.

The rape of the Planet had been easier than he had ever anticipated. Meteor had come to him like something out of a dream. It had breached the atmosphere, a glowing, fiery bringer of the endtimes. Cloud and his little group had never stood a chance. It had ended with a fizzle; none had been able to slow the impending rain of molten rock. How fast it had fallen. They had scrambled away, fleeing like fools. They were only avoiding the inevitable. Cloud had stood his ground, but his will was nothing to that of a true SOLDIER. No matter what he did, it would be in vain.

Sephiroth had laughed at that moment, his own ears even unaccustomed to the sound, so alien it was. The growing crowd of society's least desirable had gathered-those too stupid to run-hypnotized by the raw power that was hurdling toward their precious Planet. Humans were always transfixed on destruction. Like apes they would stand, mouths agape, as he tore from them their very souls, as the flaming rock that was his will, crushed them into the very Planet they loved. They were depressingly simple-minded, easily controlled by the invisible mentality of the herd, even if it heralded their doom. He felt nothing but disgust, contempt.

Sephiroth had watched Meteor's approach with admiration, love, even. It had come for him, just for him. His will had made it so, and like any god, his will could not be undone. He waited for the rush of agony, for the overwhelming, mind-numbing pain, braced for the inevitable, monolithic in his otherworldly resolve. He would not give up, would not give in. He would never be defeated. He would see the Promised Land, even if the fools would not. The puppets were to be squashed by their own theater. The irony made his heart thud painfully in his chest then grow light with emotion. He felt righteous for once. He knew he was right and in the end it was all for the greater good, even if the useless ones could not see. Cloud had done nothing but embrace the weaklings, and he too would pay the price for front-lining their defense. They were to be sentenced to death for expecting others to fight their battles for them, for in the real world, only the most ruthless animals would have their fill of the kill.

The strong were worthy, the weak were nothing more than fodder for their betters. He knew this, knew it from the moment he had stepped out into the fresh air of a healthy world and seen the ravages of a bloody civil war. The strong took what they willed; they were deserving of it. Their natural superiority was maximized by an even stronger sense of purpose. Those who were different were made better for understanding the implications of their differences. Fate was for naught. Destiny was a lie.

To be a god required nothing more than the solid of mind and body to will it so. However, even the strong could be defeated, he reflected. Jenova was proof of that. What he had, what he was-the emotions he had lost and gained-those were what made him something Jenova was incapable of being: human. He could think like one, understand one, and therefore defeat one. He had seen through her weaknesses and solidified his own barriers, becoming impenetrable. He loved Jenova. His heart had begun to beat again only for her and the will that had been bred into him. But even he admitted that his desire to please her had been overcome by his own need to rectify what had been a meaningless existence. In the end, it had been his metamorphosis that had truly been his faultless weapon.

He had known from the earliest moments that he was not like the others. He did not cry when struck, nor did he whimper at the piles of bodies that had been laid as his feet from the very beginning. Blood spilt was a war won; he learned that quickly. As swiftly as he had become cold and icy to the humanity around him, his carefully constructed shield had been easily battered down by the two friends he had made later on. He had learned to love, to care, to worry. It had been confusing and misleading. Everything he had learned for self-protection was tossed aside in a fit of what he had come to decide was sheer stupidity.

Sephiroth's trust had never been given before, but to Angeal and Genesis it had been readily provided, though they had never come to truly know it. The depth of his affection for them was not something he had ever allowed himself to show outwardly. He appreciated them, loved them like one does a brother. The feelings had been so foreign to him that he had avoided the pair for weeks, only to discover that the sensation quickly grew stronger with separation. Trust in friends, trust in those above him, no matter how wary, had been his undoing, yet at the same time, his salvation.

It was through the loss of his weak humanity that he was able to become what he needed to become. Without those experiences to guide him, without those ultimate betrayals, without his vast differences, he would have died nothing more than a nameless murderer, pointless, without purpose. He was not like the others. They were weak, deserving of their bitter end. A traitorous voice had whispered long ago that his two SOLDIER friends were different, much like him. At one point, even toward the end of what he termed 'the first life', he had believed it to be true. But then …

The word 'MONSTER' flashed in his mind's eye and he resisted the instinct to flinch. It was strange how one word could change everything. He embraced that word now, no longer disturbed by its connotations, but in the beginning …

His eyes, ancient in their understanding, flicked over the wasteland that had once been a welcoming home to him. He thought of Genesis and Angeal, of all the memories that they had shared, of the humanity he had gained. He had felt once. He had loved once.

Something wet slid down his face, so unexpected that he lifted his fingers to his pale cheek in alarm. He stared at the dampness on his fingers, half in fascination, half in confusion. The savage winds dried the wayward tears quickly, the sand stinging his face like a cold slap of reality. He shook his head, willing it to clear. His long hair whipped behind him in a tangled mass of glinting silver. Even Angeal and Genesis had needed to be cleansed by The Fall. He knew that now, and did not refute it as he once had. There was nothing to regret.

He lost his thoughts to the wind, focusing on the thrum of voices beneath him, somehow running through him. They were all one in the same, somehow, yet they weren't. One being. He was the Planet. He was what was left of a destroyed civilization. He was everything.

Sephiroth concentrated, willing his control to lash out at the disobedience, the voices that didn't deserve to be heard. Like twisting snakes, the entity that was Sephiroth dove into the very ground itself. He was sentient, yet not, his reaction purely instinctual. Though he felt himself buried to the hilt in fury, in a deathly sadness, he had not physically moved from his place, though his long-fingered hands splayed open, as though to take him away in flight. His head lolled back of its own accord; his body nothing but a shell, a remnant left behind. The greater power had deserted it. For now.

Down, down, down, ever deeper, so far that the voices of the dead were fading, replaced by sickness and sadness. He felt the cold, smelled the wet, fragrant earth. He plummeted through rock without effort. He could feel the Planted quell at the feather-light brush of his sharpened mind. It tried to hide from him, to flee. Its precious Lifestream had blackened and been corrupted, and it lay barren and vulnerable, nothing more than a helpless victim limping away from its attacker. He reveled in its weakness. The once powerful force had become nothing more than a cowering, craven thing. It took only an instant. It took only the will of a true god.

White hot anger invaded the former General's every cell. He struck at the core with a brutality that quieted every voice and chased away every protest. It was jagged and cruel, entirely unrelenting. It was a mortal wound inflicted on an enemy already half dead. The sandstorm stood still, perhaps in awe of this new, sadistic god. The world itself seemed to pause. The nothingness was overwhelming, and to the very few things that had survived the vicious onslaught that had been Meteor, it seemed as though the final moment had truly arrived.

Only a second later, sand bit into the man's eyes, gritty and irritating. His posture seemed to relax, and his eyes regained their original glimmer. The voices had gone silent. The being that was the Planet has faded away somewhere, into some dark corner where it willed itself to never be found. Like the coward it was, it had fled from the powerful invader who had murdered its humanity and filled its core with the pureness of desolation and darkness.

If there was a true devil, it was the silver-maned lion who prowled the plant's surface, endlessly seeking whom he would devour.


End file.
